She didn’t know which shocked her the most—that he could move her occupied chair with the strength of one arm, or her fleeting, absurd urge to test the texture of his gold locks as he bent to investigate the contents of the drawer.
When he found only a collection of writing implements, stationery, and a magnifying glass in the thin drawer, Cecelia deflated her lungs in relief.
“Nothing of note here, my lord,” reported a constable. “Nor in the private bedrooms, either. Unless you want to confiscate items such as this.” He brandished a book.
Cecelia squinted but could not make out the title from across the room without her spectacles.
“Bring it here.” Ramsay reached for it, and the constable deposited it readily. Upon opening it, he made a disgusted sound and dropped it as though it had burned him.
Cecelia suppressed a giggle, lodging it firmly in her throat. The book landed open to an erotic depiction. A man stood erect in all possible ways, and a woman knelt before him, his shaft disappearing into her willing, open mouth. Beneath the photo, a lewd and detailed list gave instructions for fornicating thusly.
Despite everything, Cecelia scanned the directives with great interest.
“What is the meaning of this?” Ramsay roared at the constable. “Do ye think now is the time for juvenile antics?”
“N-no, my lord!” the constable sputtered as a few of his cohorts did their best to hide their own mirth. “I thought … I just … What would books like that be doing here if Miss Thistledown is running a school as she claimed? Seems like a book a bawd would own.”
The question seemed to mollify Ramsay, though he cast a suspicious look at the pale constable before addressing Cecelia. “He raises a pertinent question. Does filth like this belong in a school for cultured young ladies?”
Cecelia fought the urge to slam the book shut. Instead, she leafed the page to the side, uncovering picture after picture of erotic acts, not all of them only including two people. She could barely bring herself to look.
She couldn’t bring herself to look away.
“This premises is not technically the school, sir.” She cleared a sudden husky note from her voice. “This is my private study. And these books are for my own … personal use.”
A collection of shuffling feet and throat clearing suggested her ploy had the desired effect.
“Now.” She carefully closed the book, splaying her hands on the intricate cover. “Are you quite finished with your search?”
He glared down at her. “Nay, my men are still combing every inch of yer business. The search might take all day. Or all night. After that, we’ll post guards at yer door just to make certain Katerina Milovic doesna show. Ye’ll lose a great deal of income then, will ye not?”
At the moment, lost revenue was the least of her concerns. “Do what you must, sir. You’ll find no one by that name here.”
“Because ye’ve sold her already, perhaps?” Ramsay baited. “Or she’s being held somewhere else?”
Cecelia lifted her chin two haughty notches. “I won’t dignify that ridiculous notion with a response.”
Mostly because she had no idea. However, if she discovered evidence of any such goings-on, she’d turn herself in and face the consequences owed her aunt. It was the least she could do.
“Tell me, Miss Thistledown…” He stepped from behind her, seemingly unable to stand her proximity a moment longer. “Where were ye off to?”
“Off to?” she echoed, confused.
His gazed dipped below her neck, increasing in intensity until she actually feared he could see through the layers of her clothing. “Ye’ve a cloak on. Either ye were leaving, or yer hiding something. Is it yer person that needs searching?”
A note in his voice produced an extra thump from her heart.
“Your warrant does not suggest that you may put your hands upon my person.” She could not help but stare at his hands, now fisted at his sides. They resembled hammers, square and large and inelegant. The skin stretched over knuckles interrupted by old scars. Evidence of past violence, perhaps? “B-besides,” she managed. “It is ungentlemanly to remark upon a lady’s attire.”
He snorted. “Ye are no lady.”
“Granted, but what, pray, would happen to me were I to burst into your courtroom and demand to know what you’re hiding beneath your robes and white wig? I’d probably be hanged or publicly flogged or some such hideous thing.”
He swiped at the air, drawing an invisible line between them. “Don’t ye dare compare your vocation to mine.”
“I wouldn’t dream of comparing our vocations, my lord. Mine is much more honest, more ancient, and historically the most vital to any empire.”
“Outrageous!”
“How so?”
He paused, a victorious gleam creeping into his vitriolic glare. “Are ye admitting, Hortense, that ye are a bawd?”
“My dear Justice, I was referring to the education of young ladies, obviously. Every great empire thrived considerably better when they began educating their females.” She injected a matching victory into her smile. “Now kindly take your leave so I may continue my work. And I’d request that the next time you take it into your mind to call, you do so on more friendly terms.” She gestured to the door as if the room didn’t appear as though Typhoon, himself, had visited, leaving nothing but disarray.
He whirled, stepping over the carcasses of her upended furniture as he stormed to the door. He held it open as constables filed from the room, some of them with rather sheepish looks on their faces. Others with disappointed expressions.
Cecelia didn’t give in to the urge to celebrate that victory. She’d made no friends today. Not by making fools of the police and one of the most powerful men in the realm.
Ramsay paused before he took his leave, his chin touching his shoulder. “The next time I come back, it will be with shackles and chains.”
He slammed the door behind him hard enough to shake the entire house.
“I’ll be goddamned,” Genny marveled, her eyes sparkling. “You were magnificent!”
“I was?” A trembling overtook her, threatening to shake the wig loose from her head.
“Lord, I took you for a bluestocking, but I never knew you had that kind of poise and sass in you. And the accent? Where’d that come from?”
Cecelia could only shrug. “My butler is French.” She pushed back from the desk, moving to the window to watch Sir Ramsay stalk to an imposing, somber carriage, tucking himself inside with grace rarely observed in a man of such heft.
“Genny.” She said the woman’s name with unmistakable gravitas. “Genny, please tell me they won’t find anything. If you’re honest, I vow to keep you safe, to absolve you of any punitive actions. I’ll pay you most handsomely, but I must know if Henrietta was a bawd, or if anyone has ever been kept here against their will. I must make reparations if Henrietta’s committed such heinous crimes—”
“Hush, honey.” Genny was at her side in an instant, taking Cecelia’s hands in hers to turn them face-to-face. “Look into my eyes so you know the truth. The women who work here dress provocatively and, like Lilly, they occasionally take lovers and we look the other way. That’s the whole of it. We—you—do not sell sex, and certainly not children.”